


A Fic, If You Will

by kirifuda



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M, Multi, Polyamory, useless fluff, your heart hearts me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:32:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirifuda/pseuds/kirifuda
Summary: “Don’t be Google maps on low data when no wi-fi is around, Gus, I’m specifically perusing written fiction—fic, if you will—of Lassie and I.”





	

Gus strolls into the Psych office and snaps his fingers. “Shawn.”

Shawn doesn’t look up. “ _Shawn._ ” Shawn blinks, scrolls down, and tilts his head to the side. He could’ve sworn he heard Gus’s shrill voice. “Are you on my laptop? Why are you on my laptop,” it seemed to say.

“Are you on my laptop? Why are you on my laptop?”

“Did you know that the Internet vastly misunderestimates my sexual experience?”

“Don’t make up words, Shawn—are you looking at porn?! Are you looking at pornography on my computer? My personal, computer,” Gus launches himself over the length of the room, slapping hand at the ready.

Shawn picks up his laptop—Gus’s laptop—and spins in the chair. “Don’t be Google maps on low data when no wi-fi is around, Gus, I’m specifically perusing written fiction—fic, if you will—of Lassie and I.”

Gus stretches out over the desk with a pained yowl. “Me and Lassie—oh, oh my God, Shawn, I’m going to set that laptop on fire, and kill you, and I don’t care which comes first—”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

 

* * *

 

The first time is not really a time, it’s an awkward, sideways, Lassiter dodges a derisive psychic feint of a time.

“Don’t you know when to quit?” He clears his throat and tightens his tie. He’s been attracted to men before, sure, even slept with a few. But most of them have been a bit more…

Competent. Composed.

Not bold-faced liars.

“Lass...ie, is it?” Spencer smacks his lips after every syllable as if it’s something he’s having trouble with. As if Carlton Lassiter wasn’t handsome, outstanding, memorable Head Detective. “Sorry, I’m having trouble remembering… the spirits just aren’t very helpful today.” Spencer peels himself up from the wall and stumbles towards Lassiter again, planting his palms over Lassiter’s chest.

As if just yesterday he didn’t have Spencer in cuffs and wasn't manhandling him into the back of his car—

Lassiter—Lassie—doesn’t correct him, either way, but he does, however, wrench curious hands away from undoing his tie for God knows whatever reason.

 

***

 

The _first_ time is an eye-opening, slightly tender time—literally. Shawn’s skull is still sore from being, well, pistol-whipped, and Lassie can’t seem to stop kissing his bruised, scraped up face—it’s kind of nice, really.

They’re… not quite fucking— _having sex_ —on the couch—the same couch where Drimmer so unceremoniously dumped his unconscious body on after clocking him in the jaw, Shawn thinks he meant to aim for his nose, but really, that guy isn’t really that good at _anything_ , and Lassie’s making all sorts of low, huffy, almost whiny noises while nosing into his ear, and Shawn wants more—

Or he thinks he does, at least, until whimpers and curls in on himself, trembling and spilling sticky and hot over Lassie’s hand, his cock jerking violently up against Lassie’s as he’s pushed over the edge. Lassie rolls his eyes and gives Shawn an admonishing ass-squeeze—of course he does—and wipes the mess on a throw pillow.

_Oops,_ Shawn mimes with a painfully fake shrug.

“I’m burning this couch anyway,” Lassie says, matter-of-fact, as if that was something a normal sane human being would admit out loud, watching Shawn climb off of him and crawl onto his knees, expression dazed and hungry.

Normal sane human beings aren’t action heroes who save his life almost every day with irresistible, flamboyant theatrics, and normal sane human beings don’t secretly involve themselves intimately with Shawn Spencer despite all advice encouraging otherwise.

 

***

 

Lassiter is sure of who he is. He knows what he’s good at, and he does what he’s good at—except when he can’t, and a civilian almost—

Sometimes, he can’t stand the thought of not being good at what he does. What kind of person he’d be then. What kind of thoughts he’d have to think.

Luckily, there isn’t much leeway in between finishing up his files and the familiar shuffling noise around the corner for him to find out.

“Spencer, got dumped already?”

“Hey, you know me, first dates only—joking, joking, Abigail went home.” Spencer shrugs, as if his mother wasn’t in the wretched, twisted clutches of a serial killer just hours before.

“You should go home too.”

There’s a pause, a little foot dance, and another shrug that’s almost shy. “Come with me?” Lassiter stares at him blankly, to which he responds with putting hands up and rubbing his two forefingers together in an indiscernible motion.

“Spencer, what the Hell is that—”

“Boner stuff. Come with me so we can do boner stuff—”

“Spencer, I swear, I will—” Lassiter shrugs on his jacket and picks up his keys, jangling them menacingly as he tries to think of a viable threat.

“Yeah you will.”

Lassiter later wipes that shit-eating grin off his face by shoving his cock right into that Goddamned incorrigibly gaping pie-hole.

 

***

 

There’s not much that rattles Shawn Spencer.

He’s had a gun pointed at his head more times than he can count, but each time it just makes him shrug. He values his life, sure, but confidence carries him through—there’s nothing he hasn’t talked his way out of yet. And Gus always has his back. And Lassie, and Jules—even his dad.

When he thinks about it—and he really tries not to—the only thing that really scares him is something happening to someone else. For all his egotism, all his theatrics, the thought of losing someone is so tangible, so visceral, so threatening that it comes all the way back to being ridiculous—it usually makes him laugh.

Not this time.

Shawn is trembling, chewing on his lip, and tapping his foot against the car rug in an annoyingly rapid rhythm. Instead of saying anything, Lassie reaches over, buckles him in and takes a moment to nose at his hair.

Lassie grimaces, sits back in the driver’s seat and stares straight ahead. Shawn hasn’t slept, eaten, or bathed—and he smells like it.

“I need to catch him.”

“Stick to my plan and you will.”

Instead of replying, Shawn reaches over and places a shaking hand over Lassie’s, and for a ridiculous minute they’re both just gripping the shift of his car in silence.

 

***

 

Later, during the day that became a week, Spencer shows up at Lassiter’s door and grabs his face as a greeting, kissing him full on the mouth in plain view of his neighbours.

Lassiter uncharacteristically can’t seem to find it in him to care, especially not when he knows Marlowe thinks it’s cute with full approval, especially not when Spencer is forcing him against a wall with his entire body, grinding up against his thigh—

“What’s—gotten into you?” He manages to pull away, regretting it immediately, because now he has to _look_ at Spencer, all focus and adrenaline and _so fucking hot_.

“You,” Spencer croons brattily, undoing Lassiter’s shirt buttons and reaching for his belt, “You should get into me.”

And for once, he’s right.

 

***

 

“Mm, unf, Lassie, yes, fuck, thank you, thank you, thank you, _thank you_ —” Shawn rocks himself down on Lassie’s cock in desperation, “Fuck, you feel so good. I love you, man.” He grins, not letting go of his own erection, his rhythm not breaking as he leans down to kiss Lassie, sloppy and rushed and wet.

Lassie can’t help but roll his eyes, gripping hard over Shawn’s hips as he drives up to meet him, but Shawn just keeps fucking himself silly on his cock, crying out and writhing like it isn't past ten o’clock in a respectable neighbourhood.

Shawn sits up again with a shudder and a sigh, flicking his thumb over the head of his own cock absently, his free hand braced up against Lassie’s chest, fingers curled in that delicious sternum bush.

He watches Lassie thoughtfully, taking in the look of concentration on his face while he fucks Shawn steadily, each thrust calculated and reserved even when Shawn can tell he’s almost at his limit. He savours the moment when Lassie loses it, howling and gritting his teeth and jerking up into him in bursts, punishingly hard against his sweet spot.

He thinks of all the things he could say to ruin the moment, but when the moment the world goes white hot hits him he can’t think of anything, no witty quips, no jeers, and more importantly—no gunshots, no clues, nothing—

 

***

 

“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Lassiter manages, tilting his head back obligingly.

Spencer continues to nip gently over his throat, hand slipping under his robe. “Come on, you have to elevate the wound. Doctor’s orders, you know, the BRAT diet, all that stuff.”

Lassiter tries to complain more, he really does, but then Spencer’s hand is gripped around his cock through his clothes and all the weariness and achiness and worry fade away for just a brief second—and he finds himself whimpering for more instead.

He lets his head fall back as his clothes are gently peeled off of him, Spencer cradling his thigh over his shoulder, careful of his injured ankle in a way he didn’t think the shitty manchild could—and he lets himself groan when fingers brush up against his entrance.

He can’t crane his head when Spencer draws a warm line up his cock with his tongue and sucks his way back down, not with his shoulder the way it is, so he bites down on his lip and lets his good arm relax, hand brushing up against coarse, pomaded hair.

He lets Spencer fuck him with his tongue, and then with his hand—all with a precision and gentleness he didn’t know Spencer could muster, and he lets himself come all over his belly and he lets himself sit up to watch Spencer lick the mess off of him with a fervour that makes his spent cock twitch.

Sometimes, Carlton Lassiter lets himself indulge in some bad ideas.

 

* * *

 

_Jules knows_ , Shawn realizes after the first time, when she greets him with an acknowledging smile.

Lassie scoots by them quietly and barely looks up, sliding himself into the interrogation room with an awkward ‘Carlton “I’m too honest to lie to my partner” Lassiter’ bow of his head.

“Damnit,” Shawn mutters, “I should’ve told you first.”

“What? Told me what?” She feigns ignorance, the corners of her lips dancing at a smirk.

“I mean, you’re totally into it, so, points for me— hey, hey, hey, where are you going, com’on, you know you like it!”

“I’m interrogating our perp, _Spencer_.” She enunciates his last name just like Lassie would, and he gets shivers down his spine.

_Damnit,_ he grins as he follows her through the door, _I have a type._

  


**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been more than 10 years since Psych originally aired but apparently I am still not over Shassie (we're one and the same)
> 
> Special thanks to my Jules for being the beta of my life and putting up with me not being a person ever


End file.
